Metamorphosis
by T'eyla
Summary: Part VII and Epilogue added, COMPLETE! Malcolm gets some bad news from home and it's unclear if he'll be able to cope with what happened.
1. Part I

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Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek. The lyrics quoted in Part II, III and the epilogue were written by Steven Tyler and are owned by Columbia Records respectively Geffen Records, those in Part I and IV - VII were written by Jon Bon Jovi and belong to Mercury Records respectively Island Def Jam Music Group.

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AN: Usually I don't do this big Author's Note thing, but there are a few things I'd like to say before you read this one. First, of course, thank you very much for reading, and I hope I can fulfill your expectations. Then, when you're done, please tell me what you think. I'm not entirely sure about it; it's supposed to be some kind of character study of Reed - or at least it took on that form while I wrote it - but I don't know if I managed the characterization the way it's needed for this plot.

Next thing is that this is no slash. In some later chapters the thought might come to mind, but it's not meant that way.

Last thing: During the story I refer to a book called 'The Metamorphosis' by Franz Kafka. Kafka was a German writer who lived during the end of the 19th and in the beginning of the 20th century. Most of his works are stories in which he basically writes about his father and his difficult relationship to him. In 'The Metamorphosis' there's a guy who wakes up one morning and realizes he has turned into a big insect over night. The book describes the reaction of the family (consisting of father, mother and sister). It was written in 1912 and published three years later.

Okay, enough talk. There'll be seven parts and an epilogue, and I'll be updating about every three days. Enjoy!

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Metamorphosis

by T'eyla

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Happiness, it's been no friend to me,

And forever after ain't what it's all cracked up to be

Part I

"It's a girl. We will name her Madeline after your great-grandmother. Yes, I know what you thinking, don't try to hide it. Well, you didn't get lucky. Nobody's going to relieve you from your responsibility as son and heir of this Reed generation. To tell the truth, I would have preferred a boy, too. But it's a girl, and so the responsibility remains with you, like it or not. You're not what I'd like you to be but I'll have to live with you; and you'll have to finally get over your stupid childhood dreams. And, son, I'll tell you one thing: I won't accept any excuses anymore. From now on I don't want you to disappoint me - not ever again. Have I made myself clear?"

-###-

He snapped out of his doze with a start. After a few seconds of confusion he remembered that he was lying on his bunk in his quarters, trying to sleep. What a joke. With a sigh he turned onto his back, staring into the darkness surrounding him. He could make out the dark silhouette of his desk standing on the opposite wall, next to the blurred shadow that was the small shelf where he kept his books. Most of them non-fictitious works, and two or three novels, including Kafka's 'The Metamorphosis'. When he had been in his fifth year of secondary school, his Literature class had read that book. Everybody in his class had hated it, but he himself had read it again and again - well, until his father had decided it was keeping him from studying for more important subjects and had taken it away. He remembered how, a few days later, his father had come to him and said:

"Why would you read a book like that even only once? A man can't change into a big insect over night. It's pointless to write a book about that, let alone read it."

He had been wise enough not to disagree, but the next day he had bought another copy, and this time had kept it out of his father's sight. His sister had called him an idiot because he was risking that much only for a book. Today, he wished he had risked more at other times, too. If he had, maybe he wouldn't be in the situation he was facing now. Pushing his blankets aside, he turned on the lights and got up. He put on the uniform that had been lying neatly folded on his chair. He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway and he was sick of lying in bed and thinking about times long gone. He left his quarters and headed down the dim-lit hallway to the turbolift. It was night on board Enterprise, about 0330 hours, and hopefully there would be no one in the mess hall at this hour so he could get some tea without having to answer any concerned questions.

But when he reached the mess hall he saw that he apparently didn't have any luck these days. When the doors swished open his eyes fell on a person sitting at a table by the window. He considered just turning around and leaving but the person had already seen him. It was the doctor.

"Lieutenant!" Phlox said, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

Reed forced a little smile. "I can't sleep." He turned to the resequencer, against good knowledge hoping the doctor would just leave him alone. But no such luck.

"Really? For any particular reason?"

Carefully taking his cup out of the resequencer he answered: "No. Good night Doctor."

He turned and was about to leave mess hall when Phlox said:"Stay for a minute, Lieutenant. I have to ask you something."

Reed stopped but didn't turn. "That can't wait until tomorrow?" he asked. He knew he was being horribly impolite, but the last thing he wanted now was a conversation with Phlox.

The doctor said nothing, so Reed turned around. Phlox smiled at him.

"Well, it _could_ wait until tomorrow, but since I don't think you'll be able to sleep if you return to your quarters now and I'm not doing anything anyway, I think now is not a bad time for our conversation."

Malcolm looked at the doctor for a moment, then lowered his gaze and sighed. "Very well, Doctor. What do you want to ask me?"

"Why don't you sit down?" Phlox motioned at a chair next to his own. Reluctantly, Reed took a seat on the offered chair and set his cup down before him. He gave Phlox a questioning look.

"Well, Doctor?"

"The last few days, you seemed... tense, like some problem was on your mind that you couldn't find a solution for. And you seem to have been a little edgy, too, if my interpretation of the mess-hall-gossip is right. As CMO I'm concerned. Is there a problem?"

Reed pressed his lips together tightly."No, Doctor. There's no need to be concerned. The last few days I had a lot of work and little sleep. I might be a little tired but that's all."

Phlos raised his eyebrows."Are you sure? After all, you've been under stress before, but you never reacted like this. I'm not the only one who noticed, by the way."

"Oh? Who else did?"

"Ensign Sato, for example. She talked to me today."

"Yesterday, you mean." Reed sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Then he looked up. "There's no need to be concerned, Doctor. Like I said, I had a lot of work...and there are some problems at home on earth...but it's okay. If you'd excuse me now..."

"What kind of problems?" Phlox asked, looking at Reed who had gotten up.

"My father's...not well. He might not have much time left. Good night, Doctor."

-###-

When he was back in his quarters he gave his bed a short resigned glance before sitting down at the desk. He took 'Metamorphosis' from the small shelf and leafed through it. For no particular reason he had marked the same places in the new copy that had been marked in the copy he'd had from school. They had had to write an essay about it, a characteric feature of one of the protagonists. He'd always hated literature essays because he'd never been able to get more than a 70% and that meant everything between having to stay in his room for a week and a black eye, depending on what mood his father was in when the news reached him. But this essay he had enjoyed writing. He hadn't really understood what the main protagonist of the book was all about - he'd always thought him to be a bit whiny - but he thought he understood his father perfectly. He'd written about him, two times the words aquired, and had gotten a 95%. But in this case, he hadn't cared much about his mark. While writing the essay he'd discovered truths about his own life that had held comfort even years later. No matter how bad he'd felt, the book and the thinking he had done about it always reminded him that there were other people who had coped with the same problems. And even if the person in the book hadn't managed to face them he knew he was stronger, and he knew it would be over one day.

But as he was now leafing through it, catching glimpses of familiar paragraphs and sentences, he wondered if that was true. He wondered if it ever would be over for him. Letting out a deep sigh, he snapped the book shut and stared at it for a moment, then put it back onto the shelf. Glancing at his chronometer he saw that he had a good three hours left until his shift would begin. Closing his eyes he shook his head wearily, then took the book down from the shelf again and, stretching out on his bed, he began to read.

He had just finished the first part when finally his troubled mind gave in to his body and he fell asleep, the book slipping from his hands onto the floor.

-###-

His alarm clock rang an hour later, waking him from a deep sleep. He shut it off without turning the lights on and simply lay there with his eyes closed, considering just going back to sleep and pretending he'd overslept. But his sense of duty made him turn on the lights eventually. Sighing he got up, trying to ignore the dull pain in his head, and picked up the book that was lying next to his bunk. He stared at it for a moment, then tossed it onto his pillow and went inside the head. Looking at his reflection in the mirror he grimaced. The dark circles under his eyes in his haggard face made him look like an underfed racoon.

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This will definitely be one of those days, he thought. _Sad if you can decide that at 6.30 in the morning_.

After showering he felt a little better, or at least more awake, but all the same he was glad that he didn't meet anyone on his way to mess hall. Even when he entered it he saw nobody he knew. Deciding that he really didn't have any appetite he grabbed a big cup of coffee and left the mess hall, heading for the Armoury. When he arrived there the only other person was an Ensign from gamma-shift. Muttering a greeting he sat down at his work station and called up his to-do list for the day. With every task that popped up on the screen his mood dropped by a degree. He looked at the first point: Targeting scanners. Sighing he set himself to work.

-###-

He wouldn't have thought it possible but until 10 am nothing happened that would have proved his earlier prediction for the day. Finding the bug in the targeting system had only taken fifteen minutes and his other work wasn't complicated either. Mostly it was just routine that kept him busy so he wouldn't think about what had kept him awake the last three nights.

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And what will keep you awake the next three nights too if you don't come to a decision soon, a voice in his mind spoke up. He quickly shoved the thought aside and went over to one of the consoles to check if gamma shift had already reconfigurated the torpedo launching sequences for the tests that were scheduled for that day. They hadn't. Pushing a few buttons he called up the schemes on the screen and started to change them to the new settings when the Armoury doors swished open. Looking up, he saw Commander Tucker walk in.

"Hi, Malcolm," Trip said with a smile. Reed frowned.

"What are you doing here? We won't be ready for the tests for another two hours."

"A nice good morning to you, too. I need to check something on the test torpedo - if you don't object, of course," he added at Reed's sullen frown. Malcolm gave him another irritated look, then shrugged and turned back to his console. Tucker walked over to the starbord launch tube, shaking his head with a grin.

"Not your day today, huh," Trip stated but when he didn't get an answer he shrugged and started to run his scanner over the torpedo that was sitting in the opening of the launch tube.

They worked silently for some time, the only sounds being the bleeping of the instruments and Reed's stiffled yawns. They both jumped when suddenly the comm chirped.

"Bridge to Lieutenant Reed."

Reed got up and walked over to the comm.

"Reed here."

"I've got a transmission from earth here. It's your sister," came Hoshi's voice from the small speaker. Reed raised his eyebrows.

"I'm preparing the tests of the new torpedos right now. Is it urgent?"

"It sounded like that and I don't think she would be calling if it wasn't," Hoshi said in a tone that showed cleary that she was a little taken aback by Reed's reaction.

"Okay," Reed said, "please put her through to my quarters, I'll be there in a minute." He hit the comm button. "With you permission, Commander?" he asked looking at Tucker who had watched Reed during the short conversation. Trip nodded.

"Of course, go ahead," he said and watched as Reed left the Armoury.

-###-

When he reached his quarters Malcolm sat down in front of his computer and hailed Hoshi.

"You can put her through now."

Seconds later the image of his sister appeared on the screen. Despite his rotten mood he couldn't help smiling, but the smile faded quickly when he noticed how exhausted she looked.

"Hello, Madeline."

"Hi. How are you doing? You look tired."

"You do too. How is he?" Malcolm asked. Madeline shrugged and looked down.

"He's in the hospital now."

"So he's worse?"

"Yes, and the doctor says there's nothing more he can do."

There was silence for a moment, then Madeline looked up.

"Malcolm..." she began, but Reed immediately shook his head.

"No Madeline, you don't even have to ask. I won't talk to him."

"Malcolm, please..."

"No. We already had this conversation three days ago, and my answer hasn't changed."

"Mother won't be able to accept that, Malcolm. She...when I told her you refuse to talk to him she freaked out. I think she cried for three hours. And now that she knows for sure that...that he'll be gone soon she...Malcolm, the only thing she talks about is that I have to make you change your mind. I don't think she'll be able to stand it if you keep up with your decision."

Reed lowered his gaze and shook his head again.

"Madeline, you know it wouldn't change anything even if I did talk to him. Over the last few years I tried again and again but he either ignored me or if he couldn't do that his only reaction was absolute rejection. I called him, it was about three month after we launched with Enterprise, I think. The only thing he did was trying to hurt me in any possible way. I swore to myself I won't do that again, and there's nothing you can do to convince me otherwise."

"It's not for him, Malcolm. I know you wouldn't do it then and I wouldn't either. It's for mother. The thought that he could die without you two even being on speaking terms is tearing her apart. You should see her, Malcolm. She looks horrible."

He closed his eyes in desperation. "I can't. I can't and I won't. He doesn't want to talk to me. He hates me. I disappointed every single hope he ever pinned on me. I wasn't the son to him that he'd been to his father and his father had been to his grandfather. I was sickly, I wasn't top of the class, I'm afraid of the water... I'm the total opposite of what he wanted me to be, and he'll never forgive me for that. And I don't want to forgive him for what he did to you, to me and to mother. He made my life living hell, and I hate him just as much as he hates me. There's no point in trying to talk to him."

"Why do you have to be so damn stubborn? You're not the only one he treated badly. I'm his child, too, remember, and mother had to live with him all her adult life. He treated the rest of the family just the same way, so..."

"But I'm his son!" Malcolm interrupted her heatedly. "I'm his bloody first-born son! I was supposed to fulfill the 'responsibilities as son and heir of my Reed-generation'. I know he wasn't exactly the best father to you but he didn't force you to live your life the way he imagined it. You're only his daughter, maybe he didn't care much about you, but he left you alone. If I hadn't fought him the way I did he would never have let me alone. But I did and that's what he hates me for, and that won't change no matter how little time he has left."

"You're so busy feeling sorry for yourself that you don't see that there are other people who might have problems too! You're determined to have it your own way and don't care who you're hurting. I bet you're glad the time has finally come that he'll be gone soon so you don't have to hide from him anymore!"

"I'm not hiding from him!" Reed cried. He had gotten up and was staring at the screen, clutching the edge of his desk.

"Yes you are! You fled onto that starship where you can hide from him and from your responsibilites to your family, and there you're waiting for him to die so you can finally 'live your own life' without the burden of guilty conscience! Maybe father wasn't that wrong about you after all; you're not only selfish, you're a damn coward as well!"

Malcolm's eyes widened. Slowly he sat down again, staring at his sister.

"If you think so then I don't see any use in continuing this conversation. Tell mother I'm sorry but my decision stays the same," he said softly and hit a button, ending the transmission. Then he simply sat there, staring at the blank screen. He couldn't believe that Madeline, of all people, could have said something like that. That she could think of him like that. He got up from his chair and started pacing. After a moment he stopped before his bed, staring down at the book lying on his pillow. He picked it up and felt the sudden urge to destroy it, to rip it apart so it would never be able to remind him of anything he might not want to remember. Closing his eyes briefly, he let out a long breath. He had to go back to the Armoury. The launching sequences still needed to be reconfigurated, and if he stayed away for too long Trip might get suspicious. Tossing the book back onto his bed he turned and left his quarters.


	2. Part II

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AN: Thanks to StormieNights, Samantha Quinn, Exploded Pen, DA, Regina Bellatrix and KaliedescopeCat for reviewing Part I. Here's Part II, hope you'll enjoy it :-)!

Thanks to Exploded Pen for pointing out a vocabulary mistake in this part! Hopefully there aren't any more ;-).

Okay, there were more... sorry. Thanks, Regina :-).

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I'm down a one way street,

With a one night stand,

With a one track mind,

Out in no man's land

Part II

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Well, this was weird, Tucker thought while he uploaded the scanned data from his tricorder onto the main computer. _A call from earth...just hope nothing happened_.

Trip bit his lip. Malcolm had seemed tense the last few days, and today he had been unusually quiet even for him. And he definitely did look like death warmed over, as if he hadn't slept at all. Maybe something had happened after all.

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And you didn't ask though you noticed something's wrong, Tucker thought. _A great friend you are._ He walked over to one of the consoles and called up the information he had just uploaded. Today they would be testing the new torpedos - well actually, the torpedos weren't new, just old ones with a few software improvements he and Malcolm had developed over the last three months. These improvements should make the targeting more accurate and reduce the time needed for launching the torpedo. The modifications on the torpedo itself were minimal, the most changes had been made on the targeting system. Malcolm had told him it had been making problems again this morning.

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Well, that's really something new, Tucker thought. The targeting system had been a problem since they had launched, there had been times when it had been down for three days in a row. It had driven him crazy even though it wasn't his department. He could only imagine how much trouble it had caused for Malcolm - which was probably why the Armoury Officer had been very keen on developing these improvements. Actually, a week ago he had told Tucker that he was looking forward to the day when he didn't have to check the scanners all the time to make sure they wouldn't break down in the middle of a fight with a hostile ship.

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That brings us back to the question: what's bothering him? Tucker thought. _He should be happy, today he can tamper with his weapons all day, he doesn't even have to work his bridge shift because of the tests. So what the hell's wrong with him?_

Shaking his head Trip sighed and concentrated on the screen again. A few minutes later the Armoury doors swished open and Reed came in. Without a word he went to his work station and continued his work on the launching sequences. Tucker paused and turned to him.

"Malcolm, is everything alright?"

Reed said nothing and didn't move, continuing to stare at his screen. Tucker took a step towards him.

"Hey, I'm talking to you. Is everything alright?" he repeated. With an abrupt move Reed lifted his head but still didn't look at Tucker.

"Yes, everything's okay," he said. "Everything's absolutely alright, great, perfect."

Tucker raised his eyebrows at Reed's tone and took another step towards him, lying a hand on the backrest of Reed's chair.

"Why don't you tell me what's wrong? You know you can tell me-"

Suddenly Reed swiveled his chair around, nearly knocking Tucker over who took a quick step backwards. Trip looked up, surprised, and recoiled. Reed was glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes, and when he opened his mouth his voice sounded raspy.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" he hissed. Tucker opened his mouth, closed it again.

"I'm just trying to help..."

"Well, I don't need your help. Keep your sympathy to yourself and leave me alone," Reed snapped and turned back towards his console. Tucker stared at his back for a moment.

"Malcolm?" he asked tentatively."What..."

Reed sat up in his chair.

"Mr. Tucker," he said, "were you born insensitive or did you take lessons? I _don't_ want to talk about it. So would you please continue with whatever you were doing and _let me alone_!"

Trip stared at Reeds back. After a short stretch of silence he shrugged.

"Well, why do I even bother," he murmured, returning to his console.

-###-

"Are we ready to start?" Malcolm asked an hour later. It was 1200 hours, after schedule they should be ready to launch the test torpedo now.

"In a few minutes," Tucker answered without looking up. During the last hour there had been icy silence in the Armoury. Reed felt a twinge of bad conscience when he thought of what he'd said to Trip, but overall he was too numb to care. The only thing he wanted to do now was to return to his quarters and go to sleep so he wouldn't have to think about anything anymore. But unfortunately, he had to run these tests with Tucker. He sighed wearily, rubbing his stinging eyes.

"Okay, everything's ready," Tucker said, getting up and walking over to the starbord weapons control console. He scanned the data shown on the display with a last examining look, then nodded approvingly.

"I'm going to launch the torpedo now."

Reed turned to his sceen that still showed the launching sequences and was about to call up the test simulations as a comparison when something caught his eye. He blinked and stared at the last sequence shown on the scheme. When realization hit him he whirled around and saw Tucker reaching for the firing switch.

"Don't..." he yelled just when Tucker's fingers touched the button and pressed it down. Trip pulled his hand back immediately, but it was to late. The long sleek form of the torpedo was already disappearing into the launching tube.

"What..." Tucker asked but was interrupted when Reed grabbed his sleeve and pulled him behind a bulkhead. Seconds later a jet of fire shot out of the launch tube before something behind the wall exploded, flinging debris all across the Armoury. The two officers instinctively covered their heads. After a moment the explosion was over and Tucker looked up.

"What the hell was _that_?" he asked shakily and turned his head to look at Reed who had immediately gotten up and was drowning the fire with foam from a fire extinguisher. Trip got up and walked over to him.

"What was that?" he asked again. Reed lowered the extinguisher and stared at the smoking, blackened remains of the starbord launch tube.

"That," he said quietly, "was our torpedo. I'm sorry, but I think I just blew up our efforts of the last three months."

-###-

"What do you mean, you made a mistake?" Captain Archer asked, pacing back and forth in the small ready room. Reed was standing by the door, following him with his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This was solely my fault, Captain."

"But I don't understand," Archer said and came to a stop in front of Reed. "You and Commander Tucker planned this test for weeks. What went wrong?"

"The launching sequences needed to be reconfigurated for the tests, which was my responsibility. I did it at the latest possible time so the torpedos would stay online as long as possible in case we'd need our weapons. So there was no time to double-check the reconfigurations, which would not have been neccessary if I'd paid attention. But how it was, I forgot to change the last sequence which had the effect that the torpedo exploded inside the launch tube - fortunately only with a small part of its actual force, but I think it was enough." He pressed his lips together and looked down. "I apologize, Captain. There's no excuse for my carelessness."

Archer stared at him for a second, then he plopped down in his chair and shook his head.

"But...this is so unlike you, Malcolm. You're not the person to forget something that important."

Reed shifted his feet uncomfortably. "I think I was...distracted."

Archer stared at him for a second, frowning. "You know, Malcolm," he said then, "I don't want to repeat myself, but that's not like you either. Was there a reason for your lack of concentration?"

Reed lowered his gaze but didn't respond. Archer raised his eyebrows.

"Malcolm?"

Reed closed his eyes. There was no way that he was telling anyone anything - especially not the Captain. This was his private business. But when he looked up into Archer's face, he knew he had to give _some_ kind of response.

"About an hour before we launched the torpedo I got a call from earth," he said reluctantly. "From my sister. She informed me about... some problems. I might have been thinking about that when I reconfigurated the launching sequences." He prayed that Archer would be content with that, but no such luck.

"What kind of problems?" the Captain asked, getting up and walking over to the window. Reed swallowed. "I'd rather not discuss that, Captain," he said and gave Archer's back a pleading look, but quickly lowered his eyes when the Captain turned around.

"You just blew up half the Armoury, Lieutenant," he said, eyebrows raised. "It was pure luck that nobody got hurt, and Commander Tucker said it'll take at least three days to repair the damage. I think I got a right to know what caused this."

Suddenly Reed felt anger welling up in his stomach and took a calming breath.

"I apologize, Captain. It was my fault and I'll accept any disciplinary measures you consider to be appropriate. The rest is - respectfully - not your business." He looked sternly into Archer's face, observing the expression there change from concern to surprise. Then the Captain pressed his lips together and nodded curtly.

"Very well, Lieutenant," he said, "in this case you're confined to your quarters until further notice. Dismissed."

-###-

Archer stared at the door that had closed behind Reed. What the hell was going on with Malcolm? He _had_ seemed kind of stressed out the last few days but the Captain had blamed it on the upcoming tests. After today's events he knew there was more to it... but Malcolm was being Malcolm and not giving anything away. Archer shook his head and turned to the window, gazing at the blurred streaks of the stars. He tried to imagine Reed not focusing on his work when on duty and realized he couldn't. His mind stubbornly rejeted the thought of Malcolm being that distracted that he'd overlook something as important as a fault in the launching sequences. With a sigh he walked over to the comm.

"Archer to Tucker."

"Tucker here," came the answer.

"Please come to my ready room. I have to talk to you."

"On my way."

A few minutes later the door swished open and Tucker came in. Archer smiled at him.

"Hi. Sit down."

Trip took a seat on the armrest of the chair standing opposite to the desk.

"Where's Malcolm?" he asked.

"I confined him to his quarters for the time being," Archer said and sat down at his desk. "But that's what I wanted to talk to you about. This morning, when you worked in the Armoury... did Malcolm seem somehow weird to you? I mean..."

"I know what you mean," Trip interrupted him, nodding, "and yes, he did. He was in a bad mood when I came, and all the time he didn't say one word when he didn't have to. And about an hour before we launched the torpedo he got a call from earth...his sister, I think."

"Yes, it was his sister. He told me. Do you know what that was about?"

Trip shook his head. "No. I asked him - I at least wanted to know if everything's alright back home with his family - but he wouldn't tell me. He snapped at me and said that I should mind my own business."

"Yeah, he said something like that to me, too." Archer let out a deep sigh. "Why in God's name does he have to be so close-mouthed? If he'd said something earlier he could have avoided that mess and saved us all a lot of trouble."

"Yes, well, but nobody made an attempt to ask him if everything's alright either," Tucker stated, shifting a bit on the armrest. Archer took a quick glance at his friend, then nodded slowly.

"That's true." He shook his head and smiled dryly. "He's always so controlled and keeps everything to himself; sometimes I wonder if he isn't partly Vulcan. It's hard to remember that even he's got to have a limit."

"I know what you mean. But... when we were trapped on that shuttlepod he told me a little bit about himself... not much of course, but... you know, I got the impression that this way of his is only some kind of self-protection," Tucker said. Archer turned his head to look at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I think he doesn't want other people to know about him because he doesn't want to be hurt by them."

Archer stared at Trip for a moment, then lowered his eyes. There was a stretch of awkward silence.

"Well," Tucker said finally, clearing his throat, "if you don't need me anymore, I got some work to do in the Armoury."

Archer nodded, and Trip got up. He was about to leave the room when Archer called him back.

"Trip."

"What?" He turned.

"Would you try talk to him once again? I know he'd never talk to me but maybe he'd open up to you... and I'd like to know what's going on before I decide on a disciplinary measure." He grimaced. Trip smiled at him.

"I planned on doing that when I get off duty."

Archer smiled too. "You do that. Find out what's wrong."

TBC...


	3. Part III

AN: Thanks to Exploded Pen, Samantha Quinn, KaliedescopeCat and Regina Bellatrix for reviewing Part II. And here we go with #3 ;-).

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In time, bound to lose your mind,

Live on borrowed time,

Take the wind right out of your sail

Part III

When Trip got off duty a few hours later his first urge was to go to mess hall and have a huge supper. The incident in the Armoury had deprived him of his lunch break and he was definitely hungry. But he hadn't forgotten about Malcolm - he couldn't possibly have forgotten that since he had been crawling around in the remains of the starbord launch tube for the last few hours - and his concern for his friend won over his appetite. So when he left the Armoury he didn't join the others on their way to mess hall but headed to Reed's quarters instead.

A few minutes later he was standing in front of Reed's door, pressing the door chime. When he got no response he frowned, pressing the chime once again. Still no answer. His frown deepened. Malcolm was in his quarters, that he was sure of. Jon had said he'd confined Reed to his quarters, and Malcolm would never disobey an order like that.

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Maybe he's sleeping, he thought, but although that seemed to be the logical conclusion it didn't feel right.

"Malcolm?" he called. "Malcolm, are you awake?"

There was no sound from beyond the door. Tucker's unease deepened. He hesitated - he knew he was being a bit paranoid - but then punched in the control override anyway. The worst that could happen was that he woke Malcolm up.

When the door slid open Tucker thought he had been right after all and Malcolm was indeed sleeping. The room was dark, and the only movement were the passing stars outside the window. But just as he wanted to step back and allow the door to close again, he heard a small sound, like paper being ripped apart. He stepped forward again.

"Malcolm?" he asked haltingly, scanning the dark room. Finally he could make out a dark silhouette sitting on the bunk across from the door. He took another small step forward and the door closed behind him. He reached for the switch and turned the lights on to a low level. Now he could see Malcolm clearly. He was sitting on his bed, staring at something he was holding in his hands. Swallowing, Tucker crossed the room but stopped a few steps from Reed. From here he could recognize what Malcolm was holding. It was a small paperback novel. And as Tucker watched with increasing anxiety Reed gingerly took the upper edge of the topmost page and slowly tore off a narrow strip. As soon as it was seperated fully he opened his fingers and the small piece of paper fluttered onto the floor where a few others were already scattered. Tucker watched the strip seesawing down until it landed on the small pile on the floor, then lifted his head and stared at Reed who was already tearing off a second one. Trip opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat.

"Malcolm?" he asked carefully and tried to catch Reed's eyes without success.

"Malcolm, what are you doing?"

Reed didn't answer but calmly released the second strip and started on the third. Tucker took another few steps forward and stood beside the bed. He lifted his hand to turn Reed around but hesitated.

"Why are you tearing that book apart?" he asked instead, his hand hanging in mid-air. He hadn't really expected an answer, so he jumped when Reed opened his mouth.

"I never want to read it again," he said, his voice bare of any emotion. Tucker felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at that tone. He pulled his hand back.

"And that's why you're tearing it up?" he asked. He felt fear forming a tight knot in his stomach. Bending down, he picked up the front cover that Reed had apparently ripped off whole, and turned it around. 'The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka' he read. He sat down beside Reed and looked at him.

"Why don't you want to read it anymore?" he asked.

"Because it's a lie," Reed answered and let go of another strip that drifted to the floor. Tucker followed it with his eyes.

"What is it lying about?" he asked.

"It says you die in the end."

Tucker lifted his head and stared at Reed. "What?" he asked, barely audible.

"It says you die in the end, and that's not true," Reed said in his toneless voice. "You don't die. Only part of you dies. And the rest of you is forced to live on and on. It's never over. You can wait for the end all your life, and it'll never come. You'll be waiting and waiting, and all the time you're dying and dying, and when you think the end has finally come it's not you who dies but..."

"Malcolm!" Tucker eyes had widened and he was shaking Reed by the shoulders. "Malcolm, snap out of it! You're scaring me!"

Reed blinked and the book slipped from his hands. He watched it fall to the floor, then he looked up into Tucker's frightened eyes.

"Trip?" he asked, bewildered. Tucker nodded, lowering his hands.

"Yes, Malcolm it's me." He studied Reed's pale face, feeling unsure if he should call someone - Phlox, or maybe Jon - but remained seated.

Reed was staring at the shreds on the floor, and, bending down he picked up the remains of the book. He stared at it for a moment, then leafed through the remaining pages.

"What've I been thinking?" he murmured, running a finger along the torn edges of the missing pages. Tucker watched him warily.

"What kind of book is that?" he asked. Reed looked up in surprise, then he lowered his gaze back down.

"I had to read it in school when I was about sixteen years old. I wrote an essay about it."

Tucker raised his eyebrows. "Really? What is it about?"

Reed shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He let the book drop onto the pile of paper strips on the floor. Tucker looked down and felt a shudder running down his spine. The shredded book looked definitely out of place on the floor of Reed's otherwise obsessively neat quarters.

"Malcolm," he said quietly, "why don't you tell me what's going on?"

Reed just shook his head and kept staring into nothingness. Tucker could feel the fear rising in his stomach again. He laid a hand on Reed's shoulder and realized that the other man was shivering. He squeezed his shoulder slightly.

"Come on Malcolm. Please tell me what's wrong. I won't go before I know. You scared me way too bad for that."

Reed opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head again. Leaning forward he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Trip looked at him helplessly, then put his arm around Reed's shoulders.

"Why did your sister call today, Malcolm? Did something happen?"

Malcolm slowly shook his head. "No," came his muffled voice from behind his hands. "She didn't call because something happened. She called because..."

"What, Malcolm?" Trip urged. "What did she want?"

Reed lifted his head and stared at the floor.

"She wanted me to talk to him," he said.

"Who's him? Your father?"

Reed nodded slowly. "Yes. My _father_," he said, contempt clear in his voice. "She told me that mother needed us to talk to each other, that she couldn't stand the thought that he could die before we had worked it out. And I refused." He covered his face with his hands again, and Tucker felt a shudder running through the smaller man.

"You...don't want to talk to him," he stated, hoping to make Reed continue talking. Reed laughed sharply.

"I didn't want to talk to him then, and now I can't anymore because he's dead," Reed said, lowering his hands. Tucker's eyes widened.

"Oh God, Malcolm, I'm sorry," he whispered, tightening his arm around Malcolm's shoulders. Reed let out a sharp breath.

"I'm not," he said flatly.

"What?" Trip asked, staring at Malcolm. Reed nodded slowly.

"You heard me right, I'm not sorry that he died. That might sound really cold and unfeeling, but I can't help it. It's how it is. I don't feel sorry about his death, but I wish I'd talked to him."

Tucker swallowed, still looking at Reed's profile in the dim twilight.

"Do you think you could have made it up with him?" he asked.

"No. We would have ended up yelling at each other, like every time we tried to talk. But maybe it would have changed it for my mother."

"Changed what?"

Reed looked up into to Tucker's face, and Trip saw tears shining in Malcolm's eyes. Reed palmed them away and closed his eyes.

"She couldn't cope with his death. My mother's always been rather... weak. She preferred to evade problems instead facing them and finding a solution. And when he died, she couldn't stand it. She...when she heard the news she had a heart attack."

Tucker's eyes widened. "Did she..." He trailed off when he saw Malcolm nodding.

"Yes," Reed said in a choked voice. "They're both gone." His voice cracked, and tears welled up from behind his closed eyelids. Tucker tried to pull him closer, offer some comfort even if it was small, but Reed squirmed away. Tucker watched him helplessly as he fought to hold back the tears.

"Malcolm..." he began and swallowed. "Oh God Malcolm, I'm so sorry..." He tried to put a hand on Reed's arm, but Malcolm got up apruptly and moved a few steps away from the bed. He stood silent for a moment, his back to Tucker, then he shook his head.

"I could have talked to him. It might have made it easier on her. It might have saved her," he said, tears choking his voice.

"But didn't you say it wouldn't have changed anything between you and your father? I mean if it hadn't made any difference..."

Reed shook his head and turned around, facing Tucker.

"It wouldn't have made any difference for me and him, but for her. She would have been able to think that she at least tried to reconcile the family. It didn't matter to her that she had tried that countless times before already; what mattered was that there was one last chance, and she couldn't stand the thought of missing it. And I refused." He ran a hand over his face. "I refused because I was comfortable hating him from far away and didn't want to revive all the old arguments. I was afraid to see him, to talk to him before he died...out here, I had found a balance, some kind of peace of mind, and I didn't want to lose that."

Tucker looked at Reed uncertainly and shifted on the bed. "Malcolm...nothing's wrong with protecting your peace of mind."

Reed's head snapped around and he looked at Tucker. "It cost my mother's life. There's definitely something wrong with that," he said. Tucker flinched, then shook his head.

"You can't know that for sure, Malcolm. You told me she had problems with her heart, that this was the reason why they moved to Malaysia. It might have happened anyway. Even if you'd talked to him, she could have died anyway."

"She might have," Malcolm said. "But I never even tried, and that makes me responsible."

He turned away again and sat down on his desk chair, burying his face in his hands. Tucker sat on the bed, staring at Reed's back. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, to say now. What Malcolm had just told him was so horrible that he had trouble coping with it. He didn't know how he would have reacted in Malcolm's place, if the same thing had happened to him, but losing his mind didn't sound too improbable. Both Malcolm's parents had died in the space of what... six hours? And Reed was blaming himself for his mother's death, and although Trip didn't agree, he could see his reasons for it.

He got up and walked the few steps over to the desk where Malcolm was sitting, unmoving. Trip reached out with one hand and tentatively, he placed it on Reed's shoulder.

"This is not your fault, Malcolm," he said softly, choosing his words with care. "You couldn't have possibly known what was going to happen. You just acted the way you thought to be right, and there was no way you could have foreseen it."

"It doesn't matter now," Reed said, his voice muffled and rough with tears. "Not anymore. She's dead."

Trip let his hand fall away and stood there, not knowing what to do. He could offer no comfort to Reed, everything he could say now would sound cheap and phony. Looking at Malcolm's back he felt such a sadness that he had to hold back the tears himself. He pressed his lips together.

"Come on," he said at last, "let's go down to sickbay, shall we. You can get something that will let you sleep tonight, and tomorrow..."

__

Yeah, what's tomorrow? he thought_. Tomorrow things will be just as fucked up as they are today._

"... tomorrow we'll see what happens next," he finished, shoving the thought aside. Lowering his hands, Malcolm nodded and got up. He palmed away the last few traces of tears, then cleared his throat and looked at Tucker.

"Okay," he said. There was a look of such utter defeat on his face that Trip felt the hesitant attempt of a smile he had tried being wiped off his face immediately. He nodded, swallowing, and together they left Reed's quarters, heading for sickbay.

TBC...


	4. Part IV

Thanks to HoVis, Regina Bellatrix, Phaser Lady and Exploded Pen for reviewing! Here's Part IV, I hope you'll like it :-)!

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Another long and senseless fight was all you knew, it's all the same

There's no one left to take the blame

Part IV

Walking down the hallways of Enterprise, where the light had already been turned down to night-level, Malcolm felt as if he was walking in a bubble of foam. Everything around him felt far away, the sounds were somehow subdued, and the colour seemed to have drained out of the world. The back of Trip's uniform seemed to have lost its brightness, instead of the usual electric-blue it looked pallid, the colour of a pair of old, faded jeans. The only thing clear to him was the feeling of immense guilt weighing down on his shoulders. He thought of the message Madeline had sent him, the message he'd read when he'd come from the Captain's ready room. It had been short, only four sentences, but it had said all that needed to be said.

'He died,' she had written. 'Mother couldn't take it, she had a heart attack. She passed away a few minutes ago. Are you happy now?'

Madeline was blaming him, too. And although he whished it wasn't so, she was right. He'd frantically looked for a way out, for some reason why the blame shouldn't be all his, but there was none. He was to blame. It wouldn't have cost him much to talk to his father. It might have been embarrassing, humilitating even, and he was sure there would have been no agreement between them, but it wouldn't have cost him much. The only reason why he'd refused was his pride. He had not wanted to be the one that initiated just another discussion, had not wanted to give his father just another chance to hurt and humilitate him. His pride. Madeline had every right to hate him, he even hated himself for what he'd done. No, hate was the wrong word. He was disgusted with himself. He had counted his pride higher than his mother's life. That was something there was no absolution for, not now, not ever.

He followed Trip through the double glass door of sickbay, and when he saw the doctor standing at the counter that ran along the wall left from the door, he remembered his short conversation with Phlox the night before. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

The doctor looked up, and a big Denobulan smile appeared on his face.

"Commander, Lieutenant. How can I help you?" he asked, coming towards them.

"Evening, Doc," Trip said. "I -"

Suddenly he was interrupted by the bleeping of the intercom.

"Armoury to Commander Tucker."

"Excuse me." Trip flashed a smile and went over to the panel. Reed looked up and saw Phlox watching him. He nodded in greeting.

"Evening."

Phlox gave him a big smile. "Good evening, Lieutenant. Is there something I can do for you?"

Reed looked at him for a moment, not quite knowing why he'd come to sickbay, anyway. Then he remembered.

"Oh, um, yes. The last few nights I had some trouble falling asleep. I wanted to ask you for something that could help me tonight. I need to be rested for my shift tomorrow morning."

Phlox gave him a thoughtful look.

"This should be no problem. As far as I know, though, you're off duty for the next few days, aren't you? Captain Archer said something like that."

For a moment, Reed didn't know what Phlox was talking about. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to concentrate at least so far that Phlox wouldn't get suspicious.

__

I'm off duty, he reminded himself. _The Captain confined me to quarters because of what happened in the Armoury._

Opening his eyes, he nodded. "Yes, I am off duty. All the same I would appreciate it if you gave me something to help me sleep tonight."

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "Of course, Lieutenant. Your inability to sleep might not by any chance have something to do with what you told me yesterday?"

Reed opened his mouth to answer when Tucker's voice came from behind him.

"You'll have to excuse me, please, I'm needed in the Armoury. Malcolm..."

Reed turned around to look at Trip who was standing next to the door, a concerned look on his face.

"Are you..."

"I'll be alright," Reed told him and even managed the tiniest hint of a smile. Trip returned it a bit wider and, pushing the button beside the door, he left sickbay. Reed turned back to Phlox, who was still looking at him with raised eyebrows.

__

He's waiting for an answer, Malcolm reminded himself. He nodded.

"Yes, I suppose it has. But I'll be okay, just give me something for tonight."

The doctor's eyes rested on him a moment longer, then Phlox nodded.

"Very well, Lieutenant, just a second. I'll get you something."

"Thank you," Reed said, and Phlox went to one of the closets and started rummaging through it. Malcolm watched him for a moment, then he walked over to where the doctor had been working when he and Trip had come in. It looked as if Phlox had been mixing a medication of some kind. Lost in thought Malcolm stared down at the few scattered red pills and white capsules and the small bowl that contained the mixture. It almost looked like some kind of weird medical still life, something you might see at the exhibition of some modern artist or photographer.

After a few moments he heard Phlox's voice behind him.

"Lieutenant?"

He turned around. Phlox was standing a few steps behind him, holding a small white box in his hand. When Reed met his eyes, he smiled widely at him.

"I can give you something for tonight, Lieutenant, but I can't and won't do it on a regular basis," he said. "If you're insomnia lasts for longer, I suggest you try to find the cause, so it can be treated more effectively."

Reed nodded. "Today's an exeption," he said. "I don't think I'll need anything tomorrow night."

Phlox nodded and handed him the box.

"Very well, Lieutenant. Good night, then, and sleep well."

"Thank you," he said, and, putting the box in his uniform pocket, he left sickbay and headed down the hallway towards his quarters.

-###-

Ten minutes later Malcolm was sitting on his bunk in his quarters. He'd turned off the lights except for a small lamp beside his bed whose halo created a gloomy twilight in the room. Beside the lamp on his nightstand there sat the small box Phlox had given him. He'd put it there when he'd come back from sickbay, but he'd never given it a thought. It was of no importance to him whatsoever. What he was paying attention to at the moment were the two small white capsules that were lying in the palm of his hand. He examined them, thoughtful. They didn't look exceptional or special in any way, just two pretty small, white, oblong objects, maybe three millimeters in diameter and kind of flattened at each end. He didn't know exactly what they were, to him they just looked like any kind of pill you might take against a cold or a bad headache. But on the tablet tube that had been lying next to the small bowl on the counter in sickbay there had been a picture of a skull with two crossed bones below it. It had been on a bright red background, and under it there had been a written warning in the same colour. A skull with bones. That was a symbol understood by everybody, human or not. Skull meant death. The bones were just decoration.

He picked up one of the capsules, gingerly turning it around in his fingers. Death. He'd thought he understood what death meant. After all, it was part of his job. Not the nice part, and not the most important part either, but a part all the same. He'd encountered death many times in his life, the first time when he'd been four and his father's mother had died. Death was no stranger to him, not at all. And until today, he'd thought he understood death.

But today, he'd realized something. He'd realized that if you wanted to understand death, you had to know what life meant. Without life, the concept of death held no meaning, it was just a name with no substance. But life was a creature with many faces. Private life, social life, working life, lifetime, life style, life cycle. People had always told him he was not living his life, not participating in it. He'd never really understood what they meant by it, and sometimes he'd gotten the impression they didn't, either. He'd told Madeline he'd wanted to live his own life. If you thought about it, the phrase sounded pretty funny. No person could live his own life, unless they renounced from everyone else. But if you did that, you couldn't live anymore, because life based on interaction. It was a paradox. That meant he'd spend his life - there was that word again - chasing something that didn't actually exist.

He let the capsule fall back into his palm. There was a small click as it contacted with its twin. Carefully, he placed them onto his nightstand, next to the white box and his alarm clock, which was all set to wake him up tomorrow at 6.30 am. He got up and stood for a moment, not moving, staring at the blank screen of his computer sitting on his desk. He could call Madeline, or, even better, he could write a letter. But why should he? After today, it would surprise him if she ever even only looked at him again. A letter would change nothing, if anything, it would make things worse.

He walked the few steps across his room and opened the door to the head, stepping inside. He didn't turn on the lights, he didn't need to. Even with his eyes closed he'd know his way around in here. Reaching out with one hand, he closed his fingers around the glass that stood on its acustomed place on the shelf below the mirror. Taking it down he turned on the faucet and filled the glass about half-full with cold water. The water ran over the back of his hand, dampening the cuff of his uniform. Turning the tap off he put the glass down for a moment to dry his hands on the towel hanging on a hook beside the sink. Then he picked the glass up again and walked back out of the head, closing the door behind him, and over to his bunk, setting the water glass down on his nightstand. He sat down on his bed again, once more staring at the two white capsules, now lying on his nightstand, casting confused shadows in the light of his lamp and the luminous figures of his alarm clock.

__

You have to chew them, he thought. _If you chew them it'll be faster. And safer._

Picking up the two capsules, he placed them on the palm of his right hand, and giving them one last look he raised the hand to his mouth. He felt one pill brushing against his lower lip, then he could taste them. It was a bitter taste, like most tablets had it to them, but somehow there was something sweet mixed under the bitter-medical taste. He picked up the glass of water and held it in one hand. Then he bit down on the capsules, and the bitter flavour exploded on his tongue, drowning out the traces of sweet. Quickly, he put the glass to his lips and took a mouthful, churning the water in his mouth to wash away the bitter taste. He swallowed and drank the rest of the water, too. Then he set the glass down. The bitter aroma was still on his tongue, and the inside of his mouth felt somehow furred. He lay back, stretching out on his bunk, his hands folded on his chest, closing his eyes. For a few minutes he lay still, unmoving, waiting for something to happen. He felt fear, but it was somehow distant. The prevailing feeling was more some kind of immense relief, as if something he hadn't known had been there had been lifted off his shoulders.

Suddenly, he felt a wave of dizzyness wash over him. Behind his closed eyelids, bright spots were dancing up and down, and his head was swimming. It felt a little like the one time he'd been on a roller coaster ride. He'd been only seven, and had almost wet his pants every time they'd gone into a sharp turn.

Distantly, he realized that his chest had closed up and he couldn't breathe. His eyes fluttered open, and he felt his hand clutching the front of his uniform. Through a haze that was blurring his vision he catched a last glimps of the shadowy ceiling of his quarters, then darkness closed in around him. His eyes slipped shut, and Malcolm Reed knew no more.

TBC...


	5. Part V

Thanks to KaliedescopeCat and Regina Bellatrix for reviewing Part IV! And here's the next one...

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No one said there'd be nights like this

Part V

Trip let the Armoury doors slide shut behind him and for a moment stood in the hallway, considering what to do. His first urge was to go straight to Reed's quarters. He'd hated to have to leave Malcolm alone in sickbay, but the guys from beta shift had needed some commando codes to be able to call up specifics about the starbord torpedo launch tube. It had taken only a few minutes, but still he hadn't wanted to go. Malcolm had seemed so... lost, the far expression on his face never changing, his usually sharp, almost piercing eyes glazed over and distant. Trip himself still felt shaken from what Malcolm had told him, and he didn't think it was good for Reed to be left alone now. He knew _he'd_ want someone around if something similar had happened to him.

The reason why he was hesitating was that he should be telling Jon what he'd found out. When he'd talked to him before, Trip had noticed that Archer was sincerely concerned about Malcolm, that he wanted to know what was wrong not only because he had to 'decide on a disciplinary matter', but also because he was worried. In the end, though, his urge to check on Malcolm was stronger and he turned left, deciding he'd stop by sickbay first to see if Reed was still there; it was on his way, anyway.

When he entered sickbay for the second time that day, he saw the doctor working at the same place where he'd been when he'd come with Malcolm earlier. He opened his mouth.

"Hey, Doc. Is Malcolm still here?"

Phlox turned around.

"Ah, Mr. Tucker. No, you just missed him. He left a few minutes ago."

Trip nodded and was about to leave when Phlox called him back.

"Commander!"

Trip turned around again. "Yes?"

"Well..." The doctor put down the small bowl he'd been holding and came a few steps towards him. "I got a question, concerning Lieutenant Reed. I wondered if you might know if there is something that might be worrying Mr. Reed. Just now he seemed a little distraught, upset even. And he seemed to have trouble sleeping not only tonight, but the last few nights as well."

Phlox fixed him with a questioning look, his eyebrows raised. Trip looked at him for a moment, considering. He might just as well tell him; Phlox was Reed's doctor, after all.

"His parents... they both died this afternoon. He told me just before we came down here. It got him quite upset."

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "Understandably," he said and gave Trip a nod. "Thank you, Commander. As CMO, I like to keep informed about the state of health of the members of the crew - not only the physical but also the mental aspect. I will handle the matter with discretion." He returned to the counter where he'd been working before. "I assume you are on your way to Mr. Reed's quarters, Commander?"

Trip nodded. "Yes I am. I thought I'd better go check on him one more time."

"Well," Phlox said and picked up one of the tablet tubes lying on the counter before him, "if you get the impression that- " He broke off in mid-sentence. Trip took a step towards him.

"Something wrong, Doc?"

"I don't know," Phlox said, frowning. In his open left hand there were lying a few white capsules, in his right he was holding the obviously empty tablet tube, peering into it. After a few seconds he looked up and stared at the pills in his hand.

"What's the matter, Doc?" Trip asked, slightly confused.

"Two are missing. There should be six of them, but..." Phlox turned, showing Tucker his open palm with the capsules in it. Trip counted four. He raised his eyes and gave Phlox a questioning look.

"You keep count of how many pills there are in these tubes?" he asked. Phlox shook his head.

"Usually I don't, but this is Peralin-Anodox concentrate." Trip gave him a confused look, and he added, "It's a highly toxic substance, lethal in relatively small amounts for all known species. A quarter or half a milligram can be quite useful, though, as an ingredient for medication against asthma, bronchitis, pneunomia or other respiratory tract diseases. Nevertheless, it's not something you want lying around in sickbay openly." He again peered into the tablet tube. "I know there have to be six of them," he said, turning the tube around and shaking it. "It were six in there when I put it here, I checked that."

"Maybe you dropped them," Trip suggested, taking a step backwards and examining the floor. The doctor shook his head.

"No, I didn't open it until now. Or did I?" He frowned, a concentrated look on his face. Trip raised his head, giving the doctor an inquiring look.

"What, Doc, did you or didn't you?"

"Yes," Phlox said, nodding, "yes, I think I actually did open it. I put two of the capsules here on the counter. But there's nothing there."

"Maybe they rolled off, or something."

"No," Phlox said, "I don't think they did. They're not round, see?" He once more showed Trip the four white pills in his palm, then put them back into the tube, closing it. "And I would have noticed if they'd rolled off."

"Well, there was no one here except you," Trip said, shrugging.

"Yes, and you and Mr. Reed," Phlox said. "But I think we can exclude the possibility that someone took them; why should..." He trailed off. Trip looked at him questioningly, and the doctor met his eyes.

"Commander... how upset exactly was Mr. Reed about the death of his parents?"

Trip stared at him for a moment, not knowing what the doctor was implying.

"What... you think... but no!" He shook his head emphatically. "Malcolm wouldn't -"

Looking at the serious expression on the doctor's face, he stopped. He felt a trickle of fear in his stomach, and mentally shook his head again. Malcolm would never even think about killing himself... would he? Trip remembered the expression on Malcolm's face when he'd looked at him when he'd been called to the Armoury. There had been a trace of a smile on his lips, but it had been a sad smile, almost non-existant, and it hadn't reached his eyes. Eyes that had had this far-away look to them, like you sometimes saw it in the eyes of someone who'd just woken up from a deep sleep. Clouded over, distant. He remembered how he'd come into Reed's quarters earlier and Malcolm had been sitting on his bed, tearing up that book, speaking in that cold, toneless voice.

Trip felt the tips of his fingers grow cold, the feeling of fear in his stomach rising. He stared at Phlox.

"Was he..." He cleared his throat. "Was he alone in this room? Did you leave him alone with these pills?"

Phlox nodded. "Yes, while I was getting the sleep-aid he was alone in here."

Trip put a hand to his mouth, swallowing. "Oh my God," he whispered, eyes wide. "Oh my God. Come on. Quick!"

He ran for the door, barely stopping long enough to hit the panel beside it, and was off down the corridor, Phlox on his heels, heading for Reed's quarters, praying they wouldn't be too late.

-###-

A minute later Trip skidded to a halt in front of the door to Reed's quarters and hit the door chime.

"Malcolm?" he called, out of breath. "Malcolm, open up!"

There was no answer. He exchanged a fearful look with Phlox who had come up beside him, and with shaking hands he punched in the control override for the second time that day. When the door swished open it revealed a dim room, lit only by a small lamp beside the bed. Trip stepped through the door, blinking a few times, his eyes adjusting. After a second he could make out a dark figure lying on the bed, motionless. Crossing the short distance in no time, he came up beside the bed. Malcolm was lying there on his back, his head turned to one side, his right hand clutching the fabric of his uniform in front of his chest, his eyes only half-way closed, revealing white crescent-shaped rims under his lids.

"No," Trip whispered. It sounded like a moan. "No, please no, Malcolm... Malcolm!"

Reaching down, he grabbed Reed's shoulders and shook them. There was no reaction at all, only the head lolled to the other side, then lay still again. The movement was so lifeless, so final somehow that Trip felt a wave of despair wash through him. He laid two fingers at the side of Reed's neck, trying to feel the pulse, but his hands were shaking too much.

Suddenly he sensed someone taking him by the arm.

"Step back, Commander," he heard Phlox's voice behind him. Quickly, he moved aside, and Phlox took his position beside the bed. Trip watched as the doctor expertly checked respiration and pulse, and he felt his insides contract as he saw Phlox start cardiac massage. Biting his lip, he kept another sound from escaping his throat. He swallowed.

"Is he... ?" he asked. Phlox shook his head.

"There's no pulse," he said between administering pressure to Reed's chest. "I don't know if I can do anything. Call a medical team."

While Phlox bent down to administer the artifical breathing, Trip went over to the comm modul, all the time thinking, _This can't be happening_, _it's all wrong, it can't be..._

He hit the comm button, calling a medical team to come to Reed's quarters immediately. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, somehow raspy, and he had to concentrate talking to the medical assistant, all the time reciting the procedure for emergencies they been taught at the academy in his head like a mantra.

Closing the channel he turned back around, seeing Phlox bent over Reed's motionless body, checking something on his scanner.

"I was able to retrieve a weak pulse, but it's not at all stable," the doctor said. Trip felt a wave of relief wash through him, so strong he felt almost sick with it.

"So he's- "

"You have to help me," Phlox interrupted him. "We'll have to empty his stomach. Come over here."

Phlox lifted Reed's upper body and turned him around so he was lying on his right side.

"Hold him like that," he said.

Trip complied, holding Malcolm's head steady, overstretching the neck, and Phlox forced Reed's clenched jaw open, with two fingers reaching deep into the man's throat. Trip heard a retching sound.

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Come on, Malcolm, he thought incoherently, _come on, it's not that hard, you can do it, come on, _come on_..._

The next moment he felt a shudder running through the body under his hands, and then Phlox pulled his fingers back as a flood of vomit emerged from Reed's mouth. Suddenly Trip felt light-headed, the edges of his vision blurring; the sounds surrounding him seeming more distant than they'd been a moment ago.

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I'm going into shock or something, he thought. _Uh-uh, Trip, not now, there's no time for such a thing now._

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard, tasting blood. It hurt, but the world came into focus again, and the sounds returned to their normal level.

Just that moment the door opened and the medical team came in. One of the ensigns immediately took his place, and Trip moved aside, watching the team and Phlox lifting Malcolm onto a gurney. He heard the hissing of a hypospray, then two of Phlox's assistants picked up the gurney. They hurried out of the room. Trip was about to follow them when he remembered something. He stepped over to the wall and hit the comm button once more.

"Tucker to Archer."

A few seconds later Jon's voice answered him. "Archer here."

"Jon, you'd better come down to sickbay."

"Why? What happened?"

Trip paused for a moment, looking around the room, at the screwed up blankets and the vomit on the bed. His eyes fell on the pile of paper shreds on the floor in front of the bed - the remains of that book - and he shuddered.

"I got some bad news," he said. "Malcolm's just being taken to sickbay. He tried to kill himself."

-###-

Jonathan Archer entered sickbay in a rush. Looking around, he took a moment to orient himself. In the middle of the room, Phlox and a bunch of medical assistants clustered around the biobed of the scanner unit. Of the person lying on the bed Archer could only make out a few strands of dark, short-cut hair, but he didn't need to see any more. He knew who it was the medical staff was treating.

He turned his head and saw Trip standing a little further back in the room, next to one of the unoccupied biobeds, watching Phlox and his team fixedly. With a few steps, Archer came up beside him.

"Trip!" he said, and Tucker looked up, noticing him for the first time.

"Oh, hello Jon."

"Trip, what the hell is going on?"

When Trip had called him a few minutes ago, Archer had been in his quarters, lying on his bed and reading a book, Porthos curled up next to his feet. When he'd heard Trip telling him in that blunt way that Malcolm had tried to kill himself, at first he'd been positive he'd missheard the Commander somehow. As it had dawned on him that this was in fact not the case, he'd been up and on his way to sickbay in no time. All the way down here he'd tried to bring himself to understand what Trip had told him, but with no success. Although he'd asked Trip at least three times to repeat himself, part of him was still convinced there had to be some kind of mistake. The thought of Malcolm Reed attempting suicide was absurd. But now, looking at Trip who had an expression of deep shock written all over his pale face, he was almost convinced.

"They just pumped out his stomach," Trip said, looking back over to the biobed. "But Phlox said he can't say if he'll survive."

Archer followed his gaze, for a moment watching Phlox who was snapping orders at his assistants, bent down over the still form that was Malcolm's body. He turned back to Trip.

"But what happened?" he asked. "I mean... he tried to commit suicide? Why, in the name of God?"

He stared at Trip, and Trip looked up at him. There was fear shining in the Commander's eyes.

"I don't know... well, I suppose I do know, but I'd never thought he'd do something like this," Tucker said, shaking his head. "When I talked to him, I mean. He was upset, very upset, but that's only natural, isn't it?"

"Why don't you start at the beginning," Archer suggested, getting a little impatient. Trip nodded.

"Sure, sorry, Jon," he said, and then he told Archer everything that had happened in the last two hours, starting from when he'd gotten off duty and had gone to talk to Malcolm until the moment when he and Phlox had come to Reed's quarters, finding the Lieutenant lying on his bed, unconscious and seemingly with no life left in him.

Archer listened closely, his feelings changing from confusion to surprise to shocked realization. When Trip had finished, Jon only stared at him for what seemed like hours. Malcolm's parents had died, both of them. And Malcolm was blaming himself for his mother's death. And all the last few days, when even he had noticed that Malcolm was somehow not being himself, nobody had tried to talk to him, to find out what's wrong. He felt guilt forming a knot in his guts. He'd known something was wrong, seriously wrong, but instead of trying to make Reed talk he'd confined him to quarters. That had surely been a lot of help to him.

He opened his mouth to say something when he heard Phlox's voice from behind him.

"Captain?"

He turned around. Taking in the serious expression on the doctor's face, he felt his stomach clench up.

"What- " he asked, but Phlox interrupted him, shaking his head.

"He's alive, but barely. I was able to eliminate the poison in his circulation, but traces of the toxin have already passed over into his system. There is nothing I can do about that, we can only hope his body is still strong enough to cope with it. Fortunately, from an injection earlier this week he had still traces of an antihistaminic in his blood stream which kept the poison from developing its full effect. If it hadn't been for that, I don't think we'd been able to help him."

Trip took a step forward. "When will we know for sure if he'll survive or not?" he asked. Phlox looked at him.

"I am pretty sure that if he survives the night, he'll recover."

Trip nodded, chewing on the inside of his lower lip. He stood still for a moment, then Archer saw him look up.

"I'd like to stay here for the night, if you don't object," he said to Phlox, who nodded.

"If you wish, Commander. It might be helpful if someone he trusts is around, in case he regains consciousness tonight."

"Do you think that'll happen?" Archer asked, and Phlox turned his head, looking at him.

"It might. There is no way to tell how much of the substance is still left in his system and what effect it will have."

Jon nodded in agreement, then he looked over to the biobed. The medical team had finished cleaning up and left. He took a few steps closer to the bed, coming to stand beside it, and looked down at Malcolm who lay there, motionless. Archer studied the Armoury Officer's pale, distant features. Reed's eyes were closed, and every muscle of his face was relaxed, giving him the peaceful appearance of someone who was sound asleep. Reaching out, Archer took one of his hands in his own and gave it a squeeze.

"You're going to make it, you hear me?" he said in a low voice. "There's always another way out, Malcolm. Always. Get well again, and then we'll look for some way to help you, okay?"

He stood there for a few more seconds, then he released Malcolm's hand and stepped back. Turning around, he saw Trip standing a few steps behind him, watching him. Jon gave him a reassuring nod.

"He'll make it," he said. "I'm sure he'll make it."

Trip looked at him for some time, then nodded slowly. Jon went over and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"You'll be okay?" he asked quietly, and Trip gave him a small smile.

"Yeah, sure Jon. I'll be alright."

"Good."

Giving his shoulder a last squeeze, he released Trip and walked over to the double doors. He hit the panel, and they swished open. Taking one last look back at Trip who had walked over to the biobed where Reed lay, Jon left sickbay, heading down the corridor in direction of his quarters.

TBC...


	6. Part VI

Thank you to ithra3, Exploded Pen, HoVis, loz, KaliedescopeCat, joslin, Katt9966 and Samantha Quinn for your kind reviews. It always makes my day :-).

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Tonight I'll dust myself off,

Tonight I'll suck my gut in,

I'll face the night and I'll pretend

I got something to believe in

Part VI

This feeling was like he imagined drowning must feel like, only backwards. The pressure on his chest and the inability to breathe was the same, so was the feel of panic that was turning his insides into a cold icy lump sitting somewhere in his throat. But he wasn't sinking downwards, instead he was drifting up, floating somehow. He tried to make out the water surface above him, but he couldn't really move his head, and all he could see was blackness interspersed with a few bright spots that looked like stars. Then he heard something. The sound was subdued, distant somehow, a persistant bleeping invading the utter silence surrounding him. He tried to move his fingers and discovered that his hand was lying on a smooth surface. He paused to check what his dazed senses were telling him and realized that this surface was supporting his whole body, from head to feet, while his head was propped up a little.

After he'd realized that, the feeling of floating dissipated, and he felt his body grow heavier. The pressure on his chest disappeared, and the bleeping noise sounded less distant, more there. It sounded like... no, it _was_ one of Phlox's instuments.

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Sickbay, he thought. But this wasn't where he was supposed to be, was it? No, he was supposed to...

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You're supposed to be dead.

The thought suddenly appeared in his head, surprising him. He considered it. Yes, he was supposed to be dead, he had tried to kill himself. He remembered the small white capsules, their intertwined shadows in the confused light of his lamp and his alarm clock display, their bitter medical taste spreading on his tongue. But...

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It didn't work, he thought, feeling panic rise in his guts. _Oh Lord, it didn't work, they got to you before it was over..._

"No," he whispered, turning his head from one side to the other, not quite shaking it. "No, please, no..."

He opened his eyes, and a blurred dimness greeted him. When his vision had cleared he could make out the dark shapes that were the interior of the sickbay of Enterprise. But maybe he wasn't actually seeing what he thought he was. Maybe this was only some kind of weird before-death experience, and in reality he was lying on his bunk in his quarters, the pills just starting to take effect. He lay absolutely still, waiting for something, anything to happen that proved this wasn't reality, but there was nothing. Only the shadowy sickbay and the blinking green-coloured lights of the instruments surrounding him, each blink accompanied by a faint bleep.

He tried to raise his head and a wave of dizzyness washed over him. Falling back, his vision momentarily blurred by streaks of black, he heard one of the instruments above him give alarm. He closed his eyes, waiting for the dizzyness to subside. The whining sound of the alarm cut through his ears, making his head hurt, and he whished someone would turn it off.

Suddenly he felt something touch his arm, and a second later the noise stopped. Then he heard a voice, whispering.

"Malcolm? Malcolm, can you hear me?"

He didn't want to open his eyes. If he did and thus acknowledged the whisperer, he'd have to admit that this was indeed reality. But the voice came again, louder and more urgently this time, asking him if he was awake, and something made him open his eyes all the same. He blinked, waiting for the image to come into focus, and after a moment recognized the face of Commander Tucker.

He hadn't realized he was about to speak, so the weak and raspy sound escaping his numb lips came as a surprise to him.

"Trip..." he heard himself say, and saw Trip's face light up, a smile parting his features.

"Yes, Malcolm, it's me," he said, and Malcolm felt the hand lying on his arm tightening its grip. Staring up into Trip's face, seeing relief replace anxiety in his expression, Malcolm felt despair wash through him, and he had to close his eyes against sudden vertigo. This was reality. He had failed in his attempt to let it end with at least some kind of dignity, and now the situation was as it had been before, maybe even worse.

"No," he whispered.

"Malcolm?"

"No, please no," he repeated, feeling his voice crack.

"Don't, Malcolm. Come on, don't cry..."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he realized he _was_ crying, hot tears burning in his eyes and running down over his temples to his ears.

"Come on, it's okay," he heard Trip's voice, "you're alright..."

He reached up and covered his face with his hands, feeling the wetness under his fingers, the lump in his throat making it hard to breath. A moment later, he felt the hands on his arms again, and then Trip was pulling him into a hug, holding him.

"It's alright, Malcolm. It's alright, you're save. You're in sickbay, Phlox took care of you, and you'll be just fine..."

He felt another sob rack his body and buried his face into Trip's shoulder, grateful for the support and comforting warmth.

"... you scared the living daylight out of us all, Malcolm. Why did you do that, trying to kill yourself, for God's sake. You should have come to me, talked to me... my God, Malcolm, I've never been so scared in my whole life..."

He felt the arms around him tightening, pulling him closer, and he let the tears flow, the shoulder part of Trip's uniform already feeling damp under his cheek.

"... it would have been so horrible to lose you like this...I was so scared, finding you there in your quarters...I was so sure you were dead...

In some dim part of himself Malcolm realized that Trip was crying, too, crying and talking, but the words didn't have any meaning to him. He felt empty inside, unable to any emotion except a feeling of loss so great it seemed to fill his whole world. Sobbing uncontrollably, he was leaning against Trip's shoulder, holding onto his friend like a shipwrecked man might hold onto a lifevest.

After he didn't know how long - it might have been minutes or days - he felt the tears beginning to subside. The intervals between the sobs got longer, and he realized Trip had stopped talking. Through the feeling of emptiness inside him he felt weary, tired. He was drifting somehow, floating on a sea of emotions and subdued perceptions. At some point he felt Trip move next to him, the pressure of Trip's left arm disappearing against his right, and a little after that he flinched as something cold stirred against his neck. A few moments later he felt his already half-closed lids slip shut, and then his weary mind surrendered to the oncoming darkness.

-###-

Trip felt Malcolm's body relax in his arms, leaning heavier against his shoulder, the breathing quieting down. When he was positive the other man was asleep, he carefully released him, letting him back down until he lay on the biobed. Then he pulled the blankets up under Malcolm's chin and looked over at Phlox who was just putting away his hypospray.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. When he'd heard the alarm go off earlier, he'd been absolutely sure that Malcolm had died, that it was over. But checking the instruments, he'd seen that the pulse hadn't stopped; on the contrary it had gotten stronger, and the readings were indicating that Malcolm was waking up. A moment later Malcolm had opened his eyes, and Trip had felt his knees go weak from relief. Then Malcolm had started crying, and while he'd been holding him, Trip had felt all the emotions, the tension and anxiety of the day break loose, and so, not able to hold it back any longer, he'd cried, too.

After some time he'd gotten himself under some kind of control again and had called Phlox, who'd been there in almost no time. The doctor had given Malcolm a minor sedative, and Reed had fallen asleep only seconds later.

Now Trip walked around the biobed, coming up beside Phlox who looked up at him. He cleared his throat.

"What... do you think he'll be alright now?" he asked, keeping his voice in a low tone. Phlox looked over to the biobed where Malcolm was sleeping, traces of tears still drying on his cheeks.

"I think now it's only a matter of a few days for him to recover fully," he said. "Physically, at least." He looked back at Trip. "I'm not entirely clear on what Mr. Reed's reasons were to do what he did, but I'm sure that the emotional recovery will take a lot longer."

Trip turned his head, looking at his friend. Malcolm's features, although relaxed, didn't have the peaceful look of those of someone fast asleep but had a strained expression to them. It was in the somehow unnatural way his eyes were closed, as if he were consciously keeping them closed, and in the way his lips were pressed together, so slightly you nearly didn't see it. Malcolm looked like someone who was desperately trying to fall asleep but couldn't. Trip thought of Malcolm crying before, of how desperate and utterly devastated his sobs had been, of how he'd said 'no' over and over again when he'd woken up. He lowered his gaze, swallowing, and nodded.

"Yes, it will. It will take a lot longer," he said quietly. There was a stretch of silence, then Trip looked up at Phlox who was watching him with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"What's the matter, Doc?" he asked, smiling a little, and Phlox shook his head.

"Oh, nothing of importance, Commander. I was only wondering... you know, where I come from there is no such a thing as what humans call suicide."

Trip frowned. "What are you saying?" he asked. Phlox raised his eyebrows.

"Well, on Denobula, there has been no suicide or suicide attempt since... oh, it must be at least a thousand of your years. There even isn't a word for suicide in the modern Denobulan language." Trip stared at the doctor, unbelieving, but Phlox ignored him and continued.

"What I was wondering, Commander... well, I suppose you know more about Mr. Reed's reasons than I do, and since you do, I wondered if you... well..."

"If I understand why he did it?" Trip asked, interrupting him, and Phlox nodded.

"Yes, that was what I meant. Do you understand why he did it?"

Trip looked back at the biobed, considering the question. He remembered what Malcolm had told him, about his mother, and how he'd refused to talk to his father although he knew he was dying. Trip thought of his own father, a quiet, equable man who had at times been absolutely helpless at how to cope with his chaotic son but whom he loved and greatly respected all the same. He imagined the hate, the pent up anger that was neccessary to hate your father enough to refuse to talk to him although you knew he was dying, to be able to say you weren't sorry about his death, and mean it, too.

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This kind of hate can drive a man out of his mind with no trouble at all, he thought, and shuddered. Malcolm had been talking about the peace of mind he said he'd found out here on Enterprise, and although Trip now thought that if you were carrying this kind of hate in you, the best you might manage was a feeble armistice, he imagined that even that probably was more than Malcolm had ever been hoping for. Seeing that at stake had probably been worse for Malcolm than facing a slow death by drowning.

But the price for keeping it had been horrible. With his decision not to talk to his father he had unknowingly signed his mother's death warrant. Trip tried to imagine how Malcolm must have felt when he'd gotten the message of his mother's death and found he couldn't. The idea was so utterly awful that his mind refused to accept it.

Turning his head back to Phlox who was looking at him questioningly, he nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do understand why he did it. I understand why he did it, and although I can't say for sure, I think I might have done the same thing if I'd been in his position."


	7. Part VII

Thanks to Exploded Pen, Katt9966, joslin, KaliedescopeCat, Midnight Dove and Regina Bellatrix for reviewing Part VI and thanks to everyone who sent me one of all these kind reviews - you're all way too nice :). Okay, now here's the rest of the story, and I hope you'll like my solution. Merry Christmas!

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Are you there?

Tell me what you're feeling

Part VII

Malcolm Reed was lying on his bunk in his quarters, his face turned to the wall. If someone would've come in and seen him, he or she would probably have thought he was sleeping, but he wasn't. He didn't even have his eyes closed. He just lay there, motionless, his eyes wide open, staring at the grey wall. He was thinking about that wall, how uniformly grey it was - no different shades or dark spots of the kind you usually discovered on a seemingly self-coloured surface when you looked closely - but only so as not to think of anything else. In fact, he would have preferred being asleep, but he wasn't tired at all, and Phlox had refused to give him something to help him sleep. First that had if not angered at least annoyed him a bit, but all in all he didn't really care either way. Sooner or later he'd fall asleep anyway, he just had to be patient and keep his mind off any subjects that might keep him awake. Of course, somewhere inside himself, he knew that precisely these things were what he should be thinking about, but this definitely belonged to what he was avoiding at the moment.

He knew Trip would be turning up soon - he'd come here around this time every day since Malcolm had been allowed to leave sickbay - which was another reason why Malcolm wished he were sleeping. Usually when Trip saw he was asleep he'd leave again. Except yesterday. Yesterday Trip had woken him up and made him get up, had begun to tell him that he couldn't sleep for the rest of his life, that he needed to snap out of his depression, needed to talk to someone. Malcolm knew that Trip was genuinely concerned, and that he should probably be listening to what he said, but that knowledge hadn't changed anything. He'd just sat there at his desk, his hands in his lap, and when Trip, who had sounded more frustrated, more desperate with every minute, had left eventually, he'd gone back to bed and had fallen asleep immediately.

Maybe Trip wouldn't come today. After yesterday, he might have decided that there was no use in talking to him. That was a nice thought - if that had happened it would mean he wouldn't have to listen to Trip's urgent talking anymore, which always brought him dangerously near to thinking of the things he didn't want to think of - but somehow it was terrible, too. It made him feel lonesome and lost. He tried to push the thought aside and closed his eyes, pretending he already were asleep and thus couldn't think about anything disturbing like that, could, in fact, not think at all; when suddenly the chirping of the comm broke through his daze. He opened his eyes but lay very still, hoping it wouldn't come again. But it did, and a voice spoke from the small speaker in the wall.

"Sato to Lieutenant Reed."

Reluctantly, he sat up and reached out with one hand, pushing the comm button.

"Yes?"

"I got a call here for you. It's your sister."

Suddenly all the unwelcome thoughts and feelings were trying to break through the defensive wall he'd built up in his mind over the last few days, and he had trouble keeping them at bay. Malcolm closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep, sobering breath.

"Tell her..." His voice cracked, and he had to start over again. "Tell her I don't want to talk to her," he said. There was a short silence, then Hoshi's voice came again.

"She says she won't hang up before you talked to her."

Malcolm opened his eyes and saw that his hands were clenched to fists. Opening them carefully he pressed his lips together.

"I don't want to talk to her." He'd wanted it to come out strong, determined, but it sounded more like a plea. Hoshi was silent for a moment.

"I think you should, Malcolm," she said then. "I don't want to interfere with something that's not my business, but I really think you should."

Malcolm said nothing. He coudn't. Suddenly there was a lump in his throat that made talking impossible. He knew that if he were to talk to Madeline now, then everything he'd tried to avoid these last few days would come back, and he didn't know if he'd be able to stand that. Just when he opened his mouth to tell Hoshi to cut the connection the communication officer's voice came again.

"I'll put her through to your quarters, alright?"

He'd wanted to say no, it was not alright, he didn't want to talk to Madeline, but when he opened his mouth what came out was the exact opposite.

"Yes, Hoshi, thank you."

He heard a click as the comm channel closed. For a moment, he stared into nothingness, wondering why he'd just said that, sensing the wall in his mind crumble under the onslaught of confused thoughts and sentiments he'd locked up behind it. He got up and walked over to his desk. Just as he sat down, the screen came to life and the image of his sister filled the previously black square. Looking at her, seeing her narrow face, her blond hair tied up in a pony tail, he felt fear forming a knot in his stomach. He nodded once and cleared his throat.

"Hello Madeline," he said, hearing the words somehow double - first in his head, then again a second later when they left his mouth. He saw Madeline look at him, her face displaying an expression close to shock, and realized that he must look terrible. He had neither eaten nor shaved in at least three days.

"Malcolm," she said, her studying gaze never leaving his face. For a moment she looked as if she were about to add something, but then she just looked at him. He blinked a few times, feeling the knot in his guts tightening.

"How... how are you?" he asked, again receiving that strange pre-echo in his head. Madeline just shook her head, still looking at him.

"I don't know," she said. "That depends on what you'll tell me now."

He frowned, intertwining his fingers on the desk-blotter before him. "I don't know what you mean, Madeline," he said and lowered his eyes to avoid her penetrating stare.

"I... " For the first time during their conversation she looked down. "A few minutes ago I got a call. From your ship, a Commander Tucker."

Malcolm felt his insides turn to ice.

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No, it can't be, he thought, _no, Trip wouldn't do that, he_ couldn't...

But when he looked up, he saw a different truth in Madeline's eyes. She was looking at him with an expression of doubt, disbelief and what he thought to be anxiety on her face, but her eyes reflected only one thing: fear.

"Is it true?" she asked. "Is it true what he told me?"

He almost felt physical pain as the one memory broke free from its prison where he had studiously immured it in his mind. The memory of the night four days ago, when he had tried to commit suicide. Suddenly it was there, in the foreground of his mind, bursting through the protective daze into which he had tried to withdraw. Biting his lip, he looked down, not trusting himself to talk. He heard Madeline's voice speak up through the small built-in speaker of his screen.

"Malcolm," she said, sounding urgent now, frightened even. "Malcolm, is it true? Please tell me it isn't."

He shook his head, slowly turning it from side to side.

"Why should he be lying to you?" he asked, in a voice so low he might not have heard it himself if it hadn't been for that echo in his head. Madeline didn't say anything for a few moments, and when he looked up eventually, he saw she was holding back the tears.

"Malcolm..." she said, her eyes bright. "Oh my God, Malcolm, why..." She broke off, clasping her hands over her mouth, shaking her head.

"Why?" he repeated, feeling something almost like anger beneath the numbness. "Do you really have to ask that?"

He met her eyes, and the anger dissipated, being replaced by a feeling of pavor. He felt his protective wall shake like from an earthquake in his mind, and sensed parts of it breaking loose, releasing thoughts and memories, and knew that it would give way now any second. As he looked at Madeline, one image turned up from between the steady trickle running through his mind. It was one of the few memories of his childhood, from a time when he might have been seven years old. His father hadn't been home, he'd been somewhere on the continent on some convention or other, and his mother had taken Madeline and himself on a walk along the shore. He and Madeline had been running ahead and back again, chasing each other, and he remembered how he'd turned around one time, looking back at his mother who'd been walking, looking out across the sea, and remembered the pure joy he'd felt at that moment. That did it. Malcolm felt the wall break, and the memories, images and feelings that had been locked up behind it poured out, flooding his consciousness, and with them came the guilt, the awareness of what had happened and that it couldn't be undone, not ever. He felt his face grow hot, tears burning in his eyes and running down his cheeks, and buried his face in his hands.

After a while he heard Madeline's voice seep through the humming in his ears.

"Malcolm," she said. "Come on, Malcolm, look at me."

He lowered his hands but didn't look up. He didn't think he could dare to look at her now. Slowly, he shook his head.

"I didn't want that," he said, barely audible. "If I'd known it would happen, I'd never..."

"Malcolm," she interrupted him. "Look at me, please."

Reluctantly, he raised his head. Madeline was watching him, her eyes dry but unnaturally wide in her narrow face. When he met her gaze she opened her mouth.

"Of course you didn't want this to happen. What I don't understand, though, is why you tried to... to _kill_ yourself, I mean, my God, Malcolm..."

"You really have to ask that?" he asked, his throat narrow from the tears, his voice sounding strained. "Madeline, I... I killed her. It was my fault she died, my stupid selfishness, my -"

"Hey, stop there," she interrupted him. He broke off, staring at his sister, not bothering to wipe away the tears that were still running down his cheeks. Her image was blurred to him, just like everything else, except the feeling of immense guilt weighing down on him. His self-induced trance had been blown away, and now again he was facing that boundless despair he'd felt four days ago.

"Stop there," she said again. "What are you saying? You didn't kill her. You said yourself, you didn't want this to happen. You didn't _know_ it would happen. It was... it just happened, and nobody could have done anything about it."

He shook his head. "You told me. You told me before that she was very upset. I could have talked to him, it would have been easy. But I didn't."

"Malcolm, it was not your fault. I mean, it wasn't as if you took a knife and stabbed her or something. You just didn't want to talk to him, and to tell the truth I wouldn't have wanted that either if I'd been in your position. You didn't know what consequences that would have, nobody could have know that. And even if you'd talked to him, it might have happened anyway. Her heart was getting worse all the time, and she was pretty beside herself ever since he fell ill, even before I told her of your decision."

"But..." He swallowed, hard. "When you called me, you told me... you said my decision not to talk to him was upsetting her, that she... she was crying and..." He trailed off, looking up at Madeline, who had lowered her eyes.

"I know," she said. "I know I told you that. And it's true, she was upset, crying. But... these last few weeks she freaked out more than once, and over less important items than that. She was just... pretty much on the edge all the time."

"What's your point?" he asked, and as she looked up he saw the fear was back in her eyes.

"That there were other factors, too. You and father... your disagreement... that was part of it, but not all."

"Not all?" Malcolm stared at her, not understanding. His tears had dried up for the moment, though, and he thought he could feel something inside himself, some feeling beside the dispair. Some kind of presentiment, maybe foreboding. The thought dawned on him that he might have gotten some things wrong in his view of the situation.

"Yes, not all," Madeline said, avoiding his stare. "My God, Malcolm, she was desperate. Father was dying and there was nothing she could do about it. It drove her out of her mind. You know how she was."

"Yes, I know," he said quietly. He thought he knew what Madeline was trying to tell him but found himself unable to believe it. Doing that would mean accepting that everything these last few days, the pain he'd gone through and the pain he'd caused other people, had been a mistake, a result of misinterpretation of information on his part. But where had he gotten these information? Only from calls and letters from home. And except Madeline, nobody at home ever wrote him any letters or called him up. Looking at his sister who was studying her hands, desperately avoiding to meet his eyes, he felt anger rise in him. No, not only anger, it was fury. Suddenly he felt hot fury rise in him, and he had to take a deep breath before he spoke up again.

"So what you are saying," he continued in this same, quiet voice, "is that it wouldn't have mattered at all if I'd talked to him or not. It might have helped her, but more probably she would have just fixated on something else, and the same thing would have happened. Is that what you are trying to say?"

There was a pause. Then Madeline nodded, looking up at last.

"In general, that's what I'm trying to say, Malcolm, yes."

"Then why," he asked, still speaking in a low voice but feeling the fury intensify, making his insides churn, "why did you make me believe that I was the only reason? Why did you make me believe that it was my decision only that condemned her to death? Did you... did you think it was, or... or what?"

He stared at her, studying her features, and saw the feelings there. There was fear, sadness, also impenitence and anger, but the predominant expression displayed what he'd felt these last few days: a desperate feeling of guilt.

"I..." She shook her head. "I don't know. These days... these weeks while father was ill, and while he was getting worse all the time, they were so crazy. Mother was on the edge of a nervous breakdown all the time, and I... I was so tense all the time, uptight as hell, and when mother died I think I... I don't know, I think I was looking for someone to lay the blame on. A scapegoat."

"A scapegoat," he repeated, feeling the fury making his heart speed up. "Great, Madeline. You needed a scapegoat. Well, lucky you, there was one just handy, wasn't there. Come on, let's blame it all on him because he's far away and doesn't know what's going on. Just marvelous!"

"Please, don't shout at me," Madeline said, and he noticed he _had_ raised his voice, but he didn't care. He stared at her, not able to believe the impudence of what she'd done. Gritting his teeth, he got up from his chair and started pacing, after a few seconds though returned to his desk.

"Did you waste one thought to what you were doing there at all?" he asked, staring down at her image on his screen. "I mean, you practically told me I was the reason mother died!"

She just sat there, her hair hanging down before her face, and slowly shook her head. When she looked up after a moment, he saw she was crying.

"I don't know, Malcolm. I... I wasn't thinking at all, probably. I... These last days were hell; I had come to the house in Malaysia to stay with mother, to help her, and I'd had a fight with Robert..."

"Don't you even talk to me about that guy!" Malcolm spat, his voice full of disgust. Madeline recoiled visibly.

"I know you don't like him," she said, "but he really helped me -"

"Doesn't seem so if he's got nothing better to do than start a fight with you when you obviously got other things on your mind than that bastard you married!"

"Don't talk about him like that!" she cried. "You don't like him, but he's been a big help to me. He only disagreed when I decided to go to Malaysia for a few weeks because he was afraid -"

"Afraid he might lose his control over you?"

"No! He thought if I was there it might only make the situation worse, and see what happened! I... I couldn't... Malcolm, I was right in the middle of it. I was watching mother marching straight forward into insanity, and I just couldn't... when she died, I needed someone to take the blame. After all that craziness, I couldn't accept it as something that just happened!"

"Yes, and that someone just happened to be me, because I was far away and didn't know what was really going on. You just told me a few lies to ease your mind, and didn't give a damn about what effect these lies had. Madeline, I thought I killed her, what you told me made me think that. Do you realize that?"

"Yes, Malcolm, I do, and I'm... I'm so _sorry..._"

"Oh, so you're sorry. Great. Big deal." He sat down again, interlacing his fingers to keep his hands from shaking. He couldn't remember ever having felt as furious as he did now. There was a stretch of silence before any of them spoke up again.

"Malcolm..." Madeline began after a few minutes, her voice steady although she was still crying. "Malcolm, you have every right to hate me for what I've done, and I'm not trying to deny it. I just want you to know that... I want you to know how sorry I am. When that Mr. Tucker called me and told me that... told me about what happened, I... I felt so... so low and dirty somehow... I... oh my God, Malcolm, I'm so _sorry_..."

She put her hands over her eyes, and Malcolm watched her, seeing strands of her hair that had come loose and were now hanging down before her face; noticing her neat, but brutally short fingernails. She'd always kept them like that. She said she did it because long ones always got in her way, but he knew it was simply because she bit them.

He looked down at his own hands. They were still folded, but if he'd opened them, they wouldn't have trembled anymore. He was still angry, furious at her for what she'd done, but he also felt a certain weariness. In the last fifteen minutes he'd gone through more emotions than he usually did in a week, and something inside him had just thrown in the towel. He knew he was supposed to feel an outright hate for Madeline, but somehow he didn't manage that. He felt too tired all of a sudden. Looking at her, he realized that she must now be feeling just like he had when he'd gotten that message. Low and dirty, she'd said, and that were exactly the right words. Low and dirty. Unworthy. He closed his eyes briefly. Then, looking up at her, he spoke up again.

"Madeline," he said, but she didn't react. He tried again, and this time she looked up. There were tears running down her cheeks, and her hair was a mess because she'd dug her fingers into it. He shook his head a little.

"Madeline, it's okay. Don't cry."

She blinked a few times, then swallowed, running one hand across her eyes.

"You... you're not mad at me?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

"No. Yes. I don't know," Malcolm said, and shook his head again. "I'm just... well... oh, I don't know. Let's just... let's just leave it at that for now, okay?"

He looked up and saw Madeline nodding.

"Okay," she said, swallowing. "Okay."

He nodded and was already reaching for the button to cut off the connection when he heard her saying his name.

"Malcolm?"

He looked up.

"Thank you," she said. He stared at her for a second and she turned her eyes away. Then he pushed the button, and the screen went blank.


	8. Epilogue

__

Maybe you're wrong, but you know it's alright

Epilogue

"Malcolm?"

Malcolm looked up. He'd been staring out the window of the shuttle, lost in thoughts, taking in the beautiful view of the long white beaches and the turquoise-blue sea below them. As he raised his eyes now, he saw Trip looking at him.

"What?" he asked.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Sure," Malcolm said, a little suspicious because of Tucker's overly polite tone. Trip smiled at him.

"You do realize that we're on our way to three days of shore leave, do you?"

"Yes, I do realize that", Malcolm said, raising his eyebrows.

"Then why are you wearing a face as if you're headed to a ten-day diplomatic mission where the main topic will be the distribution of dilithium resources of a Y-class planet?"

Malcolm heard a chuckle from Archer, who was sitting in the pilot seat, and rolled his eyes. He knew that Trip had probably been waiting to say that all day long. He watched Trip lean back in his seat, obviously satisfied, and then resumed looking out the big front window. It was a lovely sight, especially since the smaller one of the two suns was setting in the east, while the other one was just peeking over the horizon in the west. This created a special kind of light he wouldn't have wanted to miss, and he was glad he had after all decided to go down with the others.

First, he hadn't wanted to go at all. He'd figured he'd rather stay onboard and maybe relax a bit while all the others were away on the planet, but when Trip had gotten wind of that plan, he'd started to pester him to go down, had even threatened to pull rank on him to make him go. Eventually, Malcolm had agreed to come with him, but he still hadn't really wanted to. It wasn't that he objected to a few days off. He'd been back on duty for eleven days now, and he'd been more than glad when Phlox had finally declared him fit for duty not quite two weeks ago, at a time when he'd been ready to climb the walls from sitting in his quarters all day. From the moment the doctor had told him that he was ready to go back on duty he'd spent every possible minute in the Armoury or on the bridge. The work had made him feel better, had given him back some basis on which he could begin to re-build some kind of everyday routine. Even Trip, who in the beginning had kept telling him to take it easy, had realized that working was only helping him at the moment. And it _had_ done a lot of good. Two weeks ago, he'd been only feeling okay, not on the edge of a mind-numbing depression all the time but still far from well, but now there were times when he felt almost like his old self again. But all the same, in time the constant work had taken its toll, and he'd been feeling pretty worn out by the time Archer had announced that they would stop by Antares III for a few days of shore leave. He hadn't really liked the idea of shore leave, which from his experience was usually more strenuous than relaxing, but he hadn't really had a choice.

But now, sitting in the shuttle and gazing down at the beautiful scenery, he thought that maybe shore leave wasn't such a bad idea after all. He'd gotten Trip to promise him he wouldn't get them in trouble this time, and so maybe he really would be able to relax these three days. Right now, things looked pretty promising.

The shuttle turned and, instead of flying along over the beach, it headed towards a small cluster of buildings. A few minutes later, Archer set the pod down on a free space of the landing site a little outside the town. When he'd finished the landing procedures and had secured the console he turned around.

"Well," he said, "come on, let's go. Antares is waiting for us."

"If that's the case, then let's hurry," Trip said, picking up his bag and opening the hatch. Malcolm got up and followed him. He stopped for a moment and, standing in the open hatch, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh air that was blowing like a warm breeze across the landing site. He loved living on a starship and he wouldn't have traded it for anything in the galaxy, but everytime he came onto a planet, he remembered the nice things about living in an environment that wasn't completely artifical.

He opened his eyes and, seeing Trip watching him, he smiled and stepped out of the hatch, coming up beside the engineer. Trip returned his smile, and looking at him, he asked:

"Feeling alright, Malcolm?"

Malcolm looked around, taking in the strange twilight created by the rising and setting of the two suns, feeling their warmth on his skin, and his smile widened. Turning back to Trip he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm feeling just fine."

~The End~


End file.
